


Pain of the Mind is Worse than Pain of the Body

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha/Omega, Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Paddling, Rimming, Sexual Submission, Shame, Stripping, lotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gus doesn't want punishment, but he needs it. Hank doesn't want to give punishment, but he needs to. Written per reader request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain of the Mind is Worse than Pain of the Body

“Pain of the mind is worse than pain of the body.”—Pubilius Syrus

Pain of the Mind is Worse than Pain of the Body

When Hank, snug in a plaid woolen bathrobe, emerged from his bathroom in a nimbus of steam, he frowned. Normally, when he stepped out of the bathroom after his post-game soak in the hot tub, he would find Gus sprawled on his bed—often clad in no more than boxers—waiting for a massage. Hank, who knew Gus’ body better than anyone else, would then soothe, stroke, and squeeze each muscle in the way Gus derived the most pleasure and comfort from. While he massaged the aches and strains from Gus’ body, they could talk about the game if Gus wanted to debrief or anything else or nothing at all. 

Not seeing Gus spread out on the comforter was jarring—like a discordant note in a familiar refrain—and made Hank worry what was wrong with Gus. His Alpha instincts taking control of his body—tautening every muscle and heightening each sense—he felt a compulsive drive to seek out his Omega, to protect him and to comfort him.

As Hank surged into the hallway, his sharp nose caught the faint whiff of Gus’ sweat, scented with fear. His urge to find his Omega and rip into whatever was causing him distress mounting, Hank, nostrils flaring, followed the ever-stronger odor of Gus’ sweat to the door of Gus’ bedroom. 

He pounded on the door—whether to announce his presence to his Omega or to force entry, he wasn’t certain, because his protective instincts were dominating his mind and body—and was surprised when it swung open without any resistance. Obviously Gus had not locked it. 

As his door slammed open, bouncing against the wall, Gus, who had his face buried in a pillow in what had to be a futile attempt to muffle his crying, glanced up with wide blue eyes when Hank marched into his room, emitted a frightened squeak, and started sobbing into his pillow. 

Hank could smell terror in Gus’ sweat now, and his stomach somersaulted as it realized that it was him scaring Gus. Desperate to calm his Omega, because only abusive Alphas enjoyed having Omegas who were frightened of them, Hank slowed his steps as he approached Gus’ bed and wrapped an arm around Gus’ heaving shoulders, saying softly, “Sorry if I scared you by hammering on your door like that. I began to worry when you weren’t on my bed for a massage and then when I smelled fear in your sweat, my protective instincts took over, but you know I’d never hurt you. I just want to take care of you and keep you safe, baby.” 

“I was scared when you pounded on the door and marched in because I was afraid that you were so angry at me for hiding from my punishment that you were going to punish me in anger, Master,” sniffled Gus, lifting watery eyes from his pillow to fix them mournfully on Hank. “I know it was bad of me to hide instead of waiting for you to come out of the shower to discipline me, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t accept my punishment, and now I’m going to be in extra trouble.” 

“Shh.” Hank combed the hair away from Gus’ damp forehead and pressed a kiss into the fretting creases. “You know I’d never punish you in anger, sweetie, even if I had to take some time to cool off before I could discipline you in the right spirit of loving sternness, and you weren’t in trouble in the first place. Why would you think you were?” 

“I had an awful game.” Gus’ fingers tore at a loose thread in the silk pillowcase. “I deserve to be punished for that.” 

“You must be talking about some game you played in an alternate universe.” Hank kneaded the nape of Gus’ clammy neck. “You didn’t have an awful game at all.” 

“Please don’t lie to try to make me feel better, because it won’t work, Master.” Gus shook his head, mopping the tears away from his cheek with an impatient hand. “I know I didn’t do anything right.” 

“False.” Hank tapped Gus on the nose. “In point of fact, I saw you make at least one good play when you carried the puck into the offensive zone, faked out a defenseman, and got a great scoring chance.” 

“I was selfish, I held onto the puck to long, and I didn’t score.” Gus’ nose twitched like a skittish rabbit’s beneath Hank’s tender touch. 

“You had a beauty of a pass to Tats.” Once again, Hank tried to convince Gus to see reason. 

“I waited too long to pass. That was a poor play, too.” Gus’ lips were so white and thin that it was hard to tell where his lower lip began and his teeth ended as he gnawed on it. “Nothing you can say will make me believe I had a good game when I know I didn’t, Master. The only thing you can do to make me feel better is what I was afraid you were going to do to me. I have to face the punishment I feared in order to not feel guilty any more.” 

“I’m an Alpha, not a monster. I’m not going to give you a punishment that was so harsh apparently just imagining it terrified you and reduced you to hiding from me in your bedroom.” Hank was appalled that Gus would even suggest that he act in such a barbaric fashion. “You shouldn’t want me to do that, Gus.”

“I don’t want to be punished.” Gus’ chin trembled, but his voice was steady. “I never want to be punished, just like you never want to punish me. You punish me even though I don’t want to be punished and you don’t want to punish me because I need it, and you love me enough to give me what I need even when it hurts.” 

“What punishment did you have in mind?” Hank sighed, not giving in exactly, but not refusing either. 

“A paddling,” whispered Gus, gaze flickering over to the paddle nestled on a shelf above his desk. The paddle was positioned so prominently in Gus’ bedroom as a perpetual reminder of the punishment he would face if he disobeyed or disrespected Hank. As Hank only used the paddle for disciplinary spankings—never erotic ones, which were just done with his hand and often no more than pats—it’s mere presence was usually enough to keep Gus in line, and when it’s visibility did not curtail Gus’ misbehavior, several searing licks from it applied to Gus’ bottom would do the trick, vanishing all insolence or obstinance and leaving only a crimson buttocks as a trace. “Six hard swats on my bare butt.” 

Hank, curling a finger through Gus’ wet blonde hair, paused as he contemplated this. Six swats—while well below his formal limit of a dozen in a single session—from the paddle was more than he usually used to discipline Gus. Typically, it took no more than two or three—or sometimes four if Gus was being particularly stubborn about surrendering to Hank’s authority and correction—to dissolve Gus into heart-wrenching, remorseful wails. Gus’ innate sensitivity combined with the submission inherent in the ritual of fetching the dreaded paddle, stripping under the stern stare of his Alpha, and then bending over his bed to present his bare backside for punishment meant that he was often crying before the paddle ever made contact with his rump. 

Despite the fact that Gus’ proposed punishment of six smacks was far harder than one Hank would have thought to inflict on him except for the most severe offenses, Hank understood why Gus would request such strong discipline. Gus was in extreme emotional pain from the guilt he was feeling over a perceived awful game, and he longed to convert that emotional pain into a physical one that he could face his fear, accept how much he was hurting, and be comforted. Sometimes it took a physical ache to drive out mental anguish. Hank didn’t entirely comprehend why, but he grasped the process even if the reason behind the phenomenon seemed inexplicable. 

Sucking a deep breath through his teeth to brace himself for an unpleasant duty, Hank ordered, as he rose from the bed, “Bring me the paddle, Gustav.” 

As Gus, starting at the use of his full name and the abrupt command, jumped up but hesitated, eyeing the paddle as if he were wondering if he had made a horrible mistake requesting that it be applied to his hindquarters, Hank delivered a swift slap to Gus’ rear, admonishing, “Don’t make me repeat myself, or you’ll earn yourself an extra swat from the paddle.” 

Scampering off with a mouth as wide as a saucer, Gus snatched the paddle off the shelf and then hurried back over to Hank, extending the paddle with a bow of his head and a murmured, “Here’s the paddle, Master.” 

As he accepted the proffered paddle, Hank commanded, swallowing his sympathy for Gus because Gus needed sternness now, “Strip.” 

Gus cheeks were red as hams, but he complied with Hank’s order, tugging off first his shirt, folding it, and placing it neatly on the foot of his bed. His pants and underwear were added to the pile a second later, and he stood awkwardly before Hank, his hands resting at his side but shaking with a visible urge to cover his genitals from Hank’s view, even if he knew—because Hank had told him a hundred times—that the humbling nature of exposing himself fully for his punishment was an important part in ensuring its effectiveness. 

“Bend over the bed.” Hank landed a nudging pat on Gus’ bottom, and Gus obligingly leaned over the side of the bed, presenting his backside to Hank for the duration of the paddling. Rubbing his hand up to Gus’ shoulder blades—to offer comfort during a harsh lesson and to prevent Gus from injuring himself with a sudden movement during the punishment—and resting his paddle against the center of Gus’ bum to focus Gus on his impending discipline, Hank stipulated, “Keep your hands away from your bottom, because we don’t want any broken fingers. No squirming, no arguing, and no begging for me to stop. Count each swat for me, Gustav.” 

“Yes, Master.” Gus clutched the comforter so tightly that Hank could see his knuckles go pale as alabaster. 

Reminding himself that putting off Gus’ paddling would not make it go any faster and that the sooner he started Gus’ punishment the quicker it would be over, Hank lifted the paddle and slammed it down across the center of Gus’ posterior. As a pink stripe flared where the paddle had smashed into Gus’ naked flesh, Gus gasped, “One. Thank you, Master.” 

Hank’s heart cleaved as he heard Gus’ second sentence, because, while some Alphas required their Omegas to thank them for every swat during a punishment, Hank had always believed that the pain made it too difficult for an Omega to say those words with sincerity, so he demanded only that his Omega count and left it to Gus to decide whether he wanted to express gratitude during a paddling or just submission. Normally Gus confined himself to counting so it meant a lot for Hank to hear him saying thank you for the discipline. 

Squeezing Gus’ shoulder to let his Omega know how much he appreciated Gus’ gratitude, Hank brought the paddle smacking down just below the first swat. 

“Two. Thank you, Master.” Gus’ voice rose into a cry at the end, and it took all of Hank’s strength to hammer a third stripe across Gus’ backside. 

“Three. Thank you, Master.” Gus sounded as if he were choking on tears, and Hank couldn’t blame him because there was a mist in his own eyes, fogging his vision as he scorched Gus’ sit-spots with a stroke of the paddle. 

“Four. Thank you, Master.” Gus whole body was shaking with sobs, and Hank flinched as he landed the fifth blow to Gus’ burning bottom. 

Gus had to bury his head in the comforter for a moment before he could rasp out, “Five. Thank you, Master.” 

Steeling himself with the reminder that this was the last swat he would have to deliver until the next time Gus misbehaved, Hank unleashed the paddle on Gus’ upraised rear for a final time, then tossed the horrid implement aside to rub soothing circles into Gus’ back with one hand while the other reached out to grab a jar of lotion from the nightstand. 

After unscrewing the cap, he coated both palms amply with the balm and began massaging it into Gus’ blazing buttocks. As Hank attended to his flaming rump, Gus moaned, “I’m so sorry, Master.” 

“No apologies.” Hank kissed the shell of Gus’ ear. “You’ve been punished thoroughly for any possible offense. There’s nothing left for you to feel guilty about, okay, baby?” 

“Yes, Master.” Gus nodded, and let Hank rub the lotion into his behind in silence for awhile before he asked, tilting his face around to gaze at Hank with a bashful blush that made Hank’s cock stir, “You know what would make me feel better than lotion, Master?” 

“What, honey?” Hank arched an eyebrow as he finished massaging the balm into Gus’ hindquarters. 

“Kissing.” Gus’ teeth flashed in an almost sheepish grin. “Not on my ass, though. On my anus.” 

“I’m always up for kissing anywhere.” Hank tickled the inside of Gus’ thighs, drawing a giggle from Gus, who reflexively spread his legs, which was exactly what Hank had wanted him to do. 

Pressing gingerly on Gus’ thighs to ensure that his legs remained separated, allowing Hank access to the twitching pink pucker that was the center of so many of Hank’s desires, Hank ducked his head and brushed his lips lightly across Gus’ asshole. Gas tasted of arousal and excitement, not fear, and that was utterly addictive to Hank. Lapping wildly at Gus’ anus, Hank pleasured Gus with his tongue, rubbing it along Gus’ rim and then sticking it inside Gus warm, moist folds until he felt Gus tighten around him as the tension in Gus rose to a climax, and he found release by streaming semen into the sheets.


End file.
